


Beyond Data

by May



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Dream Bubbles, Horror, Horrorterrors - Freeform, Vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May/pseuds/May
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, you thought that they had left. You thought all of their psychic tendrils had slithered away, leaving you clean. You were wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Data

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alement/gifts).



They arrived with a mental burst, burgeoning and slick inside your mind, filling out its crevices. There was a feeling like they had come on your behest, but you suppose that you were so angry that they might well have done. Even if they had been waiting for an entrance. For a short while, you and they existed in tandem, your thoughts ran into theirs and theirs, you imagine, into yours, though there is, now, a mental black spot. You also can’t remember, now, what reality looked like from the outside, how space and time looked as scaffolding. And the you that was small, running around the ruins of a carapacian palace.

John was small and finite and didn’t know anything, so you took him by the hand. The loss of your mother ached, right around where they squirmed inside you. And Jack had glitched like data, when you were like that.

 

It feels like the nucleus of a star should have rid you of them. You died again and again, after all, your nerves bursting along your frame. And, in the anatomy of a god of light, where is the space for creatures of the void?

You feel like there should be some revitalisation, but you arrive on the meteor and feel an unsteady strain. Alongside a hopeless ache along your shoulders and beneath your neck, your head feels heavy, your mind fragmented by hairlines and unable to concentrate.  Aradia’s wings flutter just a little and you want to admire them. This glimmers like something you can’t catch, at the edge of your consciousness.

Maybe the strain of immortality does bring on lethargy. You notice Kanaya’s marble glow and there are, you think, three years. There’s a lot to happen, during that time, especially for you.

 

Karkat shows you the relevant communal spots in the laboratory. There are seven that will be travelling on the meteor, and the place is strewn with evidence of more. Defeat gapes in all four trolls that are still here, and something inside you squirms like a worm in a hollow.

Karkat has bags beneath his eyes, and his sharp, rounded teeth – the dental variety in trolls really _is_ immediately fascinating to you – gnaw at his bottom lip. Three years does stretch out after the short, hectic burst of the game, and you will at least need to find a way to live during transit. He grumbles about Gamzee, because what kind of asshole still hauls around a pile in public at six? You notice, though, that there is a trail of bicycle horns leading haphazardly from the pile of them to another door on the opposite side of the room.

You see Terezi standing straight-backed against a computer desk, folding her hands neatly on the head of her cane. There is a broken tea-pot lying beside her tidy feet.

To the right of Karkat is Dave, po-faced with his arms folded, his fingers twitching. He wants to pull on the unfamiliar edges of his hood but he manages not to. You found your own hood cumbersome when it hung over your eyes, so you pushed it back, that’s all. Maybe later, you won’t feel like sacrificing the mystery of the seer for comfort.

Kanaya leans against a table, staring dully at Karkat, and you think that she looks just a little dimmer, now. An ache threatens to run down your spine and you catch yourself before you rock forward on your feet. The familiar muddiness in your head means that you’ll need to sleep, soon, and you start to excuse yourself to find a resting place.

“I think there’s some soft piles around.” Karkat grimaces. “I’m not sure what you’ll find if you go looking around by yourself, though, so maybe-”

“I’ll go.” Terezi does not have a mellifluous voice. It’s loud and has so many edges, it has corners. “I’ll show Rose to a place where she can get some human comfort.”

She leaves the room without asking for your opinion, her shoes tapping in rhythm with her cane, and you trail after her. You are too heavy on your feet to do anything else. You picture yourself falling into something soft with a mild flump, the unease puffing out of your body like a vapour cloud and then dissipating.

The corridor she takes you out into is lit with a bright halogen light, and it feels clinical and bare like a hospital at night, except lacking the sharp medicinal smell.

Terezi, without warning, turns and thrusts her cane horizontally across your vision, the tip making a crunch where it stabs the plaster. When you recoil, your body recovers a little from its fatigue, for a moment.

Your nerves feel light. Terezi’s fingers are curled around the neck of her dragon cane like a tight noose, her knuckles growing a pale teal. You follow the body of the cane to look at her, and you see that her full mouth is pursed and her flat, alien nose is wrinkling.

She leans towards you and gives a deep sniff, still holding her cane in place. Then she stands back to attention and gives a horrified grimace. No shark grin of triumph for you.

“You stink, Rose Lalonde.” You do get a hint of those sharp, sharp teeth.

“Well, I have been fighting an omniscient chess piece. Oh, yes, and then I died in a cascade of green fire. I haven’t bathed in a while,” you say. Facetiousness does offer a mildly comforting plateau.

There is a small indentation on the wall when Terezi dislodges her cane. “No,” she says. “You should smell nice, anyway. You should smell like red berries and lavender. But what you actually smell like is something that I can only say is like oil.”

“Oil?” Nausea begins to creep up on you, curdling in your gut.

“Yes. Dark, nasty oil like the sort of thing that drips out of broken drones,” she sneers, and moves a little closer, again. Terezi is all teeth and vivid blank eyes. “Except without the nice rainbows along the surface. It’s just dark. And it’s all over you.”

You feel too much of a strange validation to want to panic. “I think I’m moving past my deep, black despair stage.” Flippancy, again. “I no longer have a mother to parade it in front of.”

She tilts her head. “This isn’t about your fraught relationship with your human lusus. Who has died,” she says. “But about the fact that you’re a spot in a sea of colour. Actually, you’re not just a spot, you’re almost a hole. You shouldn’t be.”

Your limbs grow stiff as your blood surges with the energy of panic. The nausea roils inside you and you feel that dropping inevitability. When you wobble to your knees,  you are dimly aware of Terezi taking a step back. She makes a hesitant noise of confusion.

Your palms scrape as your fingers scrabble along the floor. Your gut churns, swollen, and you shake. You are quivering, bristling meat, your insides clenching and shifting. Your mouth fills with the grease of bile as you heave, your muscles twitching and jerking your body forward. Terezi makes a hissing noise of disgust when you spit it out. Through the blur of eye-water, you see her shoes move back.

The contraction of your body is painful. And yet, there’s a strange globe of clarity, and you realise that none of the spit and the phlegm and the bile that you cough onto the floor is yours. Something tries to push its way through you and you give a gurgling scream. It tears up through your organs, and you feel them shift aside like rot. When you finally vomit, it seems like you do it from your very base. Then red bursts behind your eyelids.

Your shaking brings every cell you have to chafe together. And they lock into the cells around them like you’re part of a hive. You raise your head on the thin stalk of your neck, and see a thread of teal veins spiking upwards in the shape of a girl. There is the pulse and jostle of vital organs and then the root of teeth and growing horns in a skull. The jaw flaps and damaged red jelly stares at nothing. You feel vague when you watch parts of her throat contract and flick open and shut.

You stand and parts of Terezi click and buzz and you can see where she fits together, you can see her down to the fine gristle. You reach forward with a limb – one limb – to see where her smooth troll skin connects with the rest of her. She’s a sturdier vessel than yours, her muscles far more dense and compact, her bones stronger. Though yours is linked through with the immortality of light, you know that it’s soft. She snags when you touch her.

You miss her shrieking and raising her arm. You sink after the crack against your skull, your body folding up like it has lost its core. The teal veining flashes out of your vision.

 

The surface of the bubble is clouded when you wake up, there, like frosted glass in a polluted city, instead of brightly swirling with colour. Behind your face, that dark, hesitant dream fear bleaches.

They’re passing your consciousness between them, this fragile bauble passed between tendrils, being run idly up the muscle of a flagellum. Your home is there, obnoxious in its casuality. It brings you the water running along its underside and the wind blowing through the trees, outside. You get the distant sound of traffic and that meanderingly low sound of an aeroplane.

You don’t bother with the empty house and, instead, walk onwards, down into a meadow under a twin mooned-sky. You wonder which troll’s memory this is, but you can’t see anybody else around. Not even one of those squirming babies that made you bristle the last time you slept. But the memory of the sky twinkles with the stars of worlds that don’t live anymore, and the moons catch their light and glow. The field blows back and forth around your ankles and it’s verdant with alien blooms on waving stems.

All you’ve got to do, until you wake up, is walk. So you do. In this empty bubble, you cling to the noise your feet make against the corn. At least your dream body doesn’t feel the toll of anything.

You might find it’s easier to forget, under what looks like an entire universe, that they’re just beyond it. And your fear does begin to dissipate, though that may be the resolve of somebody in a boiled pot. You don’t know how the mechanisms of sleep really work, here, but imagine that the game would give you some compensation when you slept. You hope your mind really is organising itself, because your body will have a lot to greet it when you wake up.

You walk until you’re out of the glow of the moons and the stars are beginning to thin out. Reflections of the bubble appear when there’s less and less light to disguise them.  They could be, though, just grey mirages. The stars begin to dissolve into the void, completely. Without features, it’s clear to see that you aren’t the immediate toy of anything. No louche villain tosses you carefully back and forth. Along the same strand, they don’t have to be physically present to not be forgotten.

_Rose_. They speak in chorus, a brain-searing crescendo. From some of them, there are low, sharp whispers, from others, there come shrieks. You know, deep in your bones, that they are all. Every demon and every god who was never a man was a horrorterror. _Are you still helping us? Rose._

If you quantify bad as simply having cruel intentions, then they are not bad. But, for similar reasons, neither are they good. Skaia’s moral judgement on dead god tier players is merely a function of convenience. A mechanism for charting. How chaos would spread if a villain could simply be left to run amok without the fear of death, or if heroes could simply make sacrifice upon sacrifice, and never learn a thing.

“I am still helping you.” Your voice is contained, like you’re speaking in an enclosed room instead of in an open field. This, somehow guiltily, gives you a secret bud of confidence. “What was that?”

_To best help us. You must understand._ It doesn’t hurt so much as it feels like something white-cold brushing along your cortex. _Did you know, Rose, that flesh is data, and data is flesh?_

And you now know why there are no ghosts in this bubble. Stands to reason. Unlike Terezi, fully alive, they simply appear to evaporate like salt in water. Perhaps you walked through the troll whose memory was caught on that field and they felt you, as if one of the very corners of paradox space had just brushed through every spirit-atom they have.

“Do they know I’m here?”

_It cannot be said that they really see anything. They just think they do._

“If they think so, wouldn’t that make it so?”

_You need to understand better if you want to help us._

“Who says I want to?” There is a resounding silence. “May I wake up, now, please?”

 

Your eyes slip open into dim light and Kanaya’s sharp profile in half-silhouette. You’re not sure where on the meteor you are, but you know that you’re warm and comfortable. You feel cosily hidden, kind of.  However, your stomach feels swollen and empty, like it should, and your head hurts like it should, pain spidering out from the bump that Terezi gave you. Your body feels firm and complete, like it definitely belongs to you.

Kanaya, who is straight backed, an expression of dogged concern on her face. She’s folded her arms in her lap, moving the fingers of one hand over the back of the other, fractiously. You give an obvious sigh, and shift, which makes every node of pain you currently have swell up. She looks at you from underneath heavy, sagging eyelids.

“You’re sleeping on a mixture of animal furs and carpets. All of them clean enough. The good thing is that we had enough grist to alchemise any dirt off of them.” You don’t ask which troll would have had reserves on animal skins, because you’re pretty sure it’s not one of the living. “How are you? Terezi said you took quite the hit.”

 “I bet she did. But I don’t blame her; god knows what it must have looked like,” you say. Your head wound flares and you wince and raise a hand to cradle it. Nothing surfaces, however. No clenching or squirming in your gut, just to _remind_ you. You almost find yourself half-grateful to them. “I know what it looked like from my end.”

Kanaya gives a sympathetic half-grimace, showing you her own reserve of teeth. There isn’t quite the same hyena effect that Terezi has but it still carries a similar threat. Though, implicitly, somehow, not to you. “What did it look like? I’m asking because I’m curious.”

You do wonder about the clear sympathy on her face. “It’s…hmm, for lack of a better explanation, everything was turned inside out.” You know she saw you fighting Jack. That’s one of the stipulations of meeting someone who has been watching you all along. “Like removing the front of a piece of machinery.”

Kanaya nods. “Yes.”

“Is Terezi okay?” You know what you saw wasn’t any injury for her, but you ask, because you aren’t sure about what you actually did, and seeing somebody so organically triggers a kind of intrinsic alarm.

“She’s fine. She’s seen much worse. I think she’s really just on edge and worried.”

You watch her fingers scratch against her skirt a little more. Kanaya is tall and sparse and her fingers end in points. “If you’re worried about what the others think about this. I’ve at least made sure that Karkat doesn’t know for the mean time. I think it’s best, that way.”

“Okay.” You don’t know if you know what to do with that information. Once again, you feel as if you’ve walked on stage halfway through a melodrama, and the death scene is finished but the rest of the players are stiffly holding their weapons. Still, you resent, just a little, the idea of being swept under the rug.

 “I just think this trip should be as easy as we can make it,” sighs Kanaya.

And you’ve just turned up, so you shrug.

“I don’t think anybody needs to be babied,” you say, tersely. Though, it’s not like you don’t understand the sentiment.

Kanaya shrugs, her shoulders turning inward. “No. It is much easier keeping things from being chaotic, however. There are a lot of unsteady factors to be taken into consideration.” She swallows, and you see one of her teeth catch against her lower lip. There’s a papery dryness to her voice.

“I do imagine he’s something of an important node in the link up,” you say, without ever having thought it, first. Kanaya blinks and you find yourself hurrying on. “Perhaps it’s good that it wasn’t you I saw.”

“It’s good. I would have looked different from Terezi.” Kanaya’s tone is even and you remember the troll’s particular quirk of xenobiological difference.

“I don’t think _that_ would make much of a difference to me,” you say, honestly. “I’m not used to blood that isn’t red, remember?”

“It would have been different,” she says. And it’s simple. You feel that your eyelids are growing heavy, again, and your head ache rounds out behind your eyes. Perhaps without immortality, it would have been worse.

“I need to sleep,” is all you want to say, now. You drift off as Kanaya’s footsteps leave the room.

 

The bubble is brighter when you wake up, there. Then you realise that, actually, you can just see the edges better.

_Welcome back, Rose._ There’s a hissing resentment, you can tell, and you wonder if the cosiness of the last few waking minutes were just a sarcastic absence. It would really be brokenly apt for you to have lost your mother, only to take up the pattern of antagonism with a gang of tentacled gods. It would be apt and, yet, strangely trite.

“Hello,” you say, blandly. You think your voice might even be louder, now. “Could you not stand the awkward warmth of my burgeoning friendship with an alien girl?”

_There’s nothing alien between you for us, Rose._ You might have gathered such. _You made meaningless conversations with two beings. One who listened, and another who is unendingly hungry. Only one of them plays the game. Nevertheless, they are two, and not the only two._

You know about Kanaya’s vampirism, and it dawns on you that, to the unempathic, it looks like inviting somebody with a tapeworm to a dinner party.

“Somebody else is a vampire?”

_Somebody else appears to be one but is two._

“I see.” You get the feeling that you won’t get much by asking who. “And this is why I got the impromptu gift of x-ray vision? So that I could check for the extra heads?”

_He hurts us._ That was all they said. _It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts._

 

Your eyes snap open, this time; this bout of sleep bought you better recuperation, at least. This probably means that you can conclude that sleeping in the medium is still nourishing. You’ve also entirely returned to that coziness where they seem to be absent.

On the other hand, Kanaya has not returned and Terezi sits in her place, watching you. Her fine, thin mouth keeps her teeth neatly hidden, as do her glasses keep her eyes. Somehow, she’s giving you a pointed stare.

Just ahead of her thin knees, pressed together, you see the head of her cane, cresting above the line of your makeshift bed. Her small, conical horns are offset by the dim light, and you dare to find their resolute sharpness despite diminutiveness amusing.

It could be, however, that that’s merely offset by the hot beverage she’s holding in her hands. Her curled fingers are delicate like thin branches, with strong, corded bone.

“Hello,” she says, and it’s not a warm greeting. The steam curls off the top of the drink, perhaps in trite contrast. “You also have a drink. It’s there.”

She nods at a place by your shoulder, and you turn to see a similar cup sitting on a short metal table. The cup is some plain, thick object, and the table you recognise from one of the corridors. Some place or other to put perfunctory objects.

“We have some tea, here,” she says. “We might as well use it.”

Terezi’s angled jaw is hard as she cradles her drink. You pull yourself up into a sitting position and realise that you ache somewhat less than yesterday.

“Well, then, I should certainly try and drink some.” In truth, a craving for a hot drink is beginning to prickle at your throat. You pick it up and the warmth clouds through your hands. You give a quiet sigh as your muscles settle, just a little. Terezi just smiles in response, and it’s not a jeering smile, you don’t think.

The tea has a citrusy scent, mixed with some sort of spice. You stare down into its innocuous yellowish depths and it occurs to you that it could well contain nothing like there was at all on earth.

“Don’t worry. It was Kanaya’s idea, actually. Do you think she’d want to hurt you?” Terezi takes a sip of her drink. So you give in and decide to follow suit. It’s not like it would kill you for good, anyway. It’s earthy and sharp, but not bad, and you feel refreshed for it.

“No, but you elected to bring it.” you reply. The bruise on your head has faded to a dull, ephemeral headache. “You hit me over the head with your cane. That’s understandable, given the circumstances, but I know that, of course, You Are On To Me.”

Terezi bows her head a little. “I know. You were disappearing, though, Rose. That wasn’t actually you.” She taps her flat nose with one finger. “I can smell on the inside, too, you know. And the lavender was dwindling.”

Cold sinks inside you, and you try and take solace in the fact that that feeling was all you, at least. “Are you really that precise?” you say. There’s a hopeless scrabbling feeling burgeoning on the horizon.

Terezi’s face is mannequin still, and her shoulders move inwards a little, just a little, and you can, then, imagine that she has oiled, metal hinges on all of her joints. “I am that precise,” she says, finally. “I know, Rose. It’s always clear as the day.”

She cackles, and you imagine that it’s a private joke that gestated in her past.

You nod. You’ve crossed paths like frayed string. Every one of you wants to stay ravelled, after all.

“If you want to sweeten your tea,” Terezi continued, airily. “I think Kanaya said we still had a sugar reserve. There are a lot of things going unused.”

 

The next few weeks drag around behind you, and everyone fans out into their own little cloud. The main communal room begins to shift into somewhere that might be lived in. Slowly, it becomes the habitat of its current residence and evidence of anyone former gets put into use or recycled into grist. That’s miles more useful, after all, than walking past something, only to wonder who it belonged to. It’s not a graveyard.

You dream, often, and you only rarely go back into the darkened bubbles where they talk to you. It’s regular for weeks. You see ghosts, as usual, and it seems preposterous that they much just be nodules of data, constructed to look like flesh.

_What’s the difference between data and cells?_

There are a lot of ghosts that you don’t recognise – reams of trolls dead and wandering, some of them so old, their world is just the material of dogma for a newer one. You speak to them, sometimes, because you’re not so heartless. You find that there aren’t many of you four, but there are eons and eons worth of trolls.

Speaking to the ghosts of the living becomes jarring, so you start avoiding those ones. It takes a moment to wake up to someone who you just knew to die in flame or who was broken out from the inside.

Otherwise, though, with Kanaya, there is a bright realisation, that occurs to you over and over again. It’s the glow of moving side by side, of sliding into a kind of solidarity. This is a contrast from when she was talking to you from a backdrop of alien mystery.

On one occasion, when the room is starting to look like a home, and it’s only the two of you, you kiss her. IIt doesn’t feel like something that always should have been, but more like something you felt like you might as well do, your body rolling forwards towards her as if something is clearing before you. It’s a chaste kiss because her fangs press against your mouth when you kiss her, stationary but edged.

Dave puts his time into Terezi. You think that he, as a time hero, has hit a kind of inertia in the void, where it’s too slippery to do anything with. Instead of organising an army of himself, he plays chess with tin cans. He doesn’t seem discontent, not at the moment.

To talk to Terezi is an odd mixture of dread and gratification, like sour fruit, and she tells you, gravely, that you’re not so bad right now. And that perhaps you are more you than them. You wonder how Dave navigates kissing her with that mouth. She still gets close enough to sniff, and you wonder if the smell of oil is secretly quite satisfying, after all, even if it doesn’t have the rainbow of gasoline.

You do think that they’ve retreated a little. In dreams, you sometimes get a nudge and, again, you are the daughter of a reproachful parent. But they’ve taken to merely being a sort of mire in your head, and you manage that.

Living, of course, requires needs other than a giant communal space and somewhere to sleep. Your needs haven’t changed, right down to the trivially private. It turns out, luckily, that the perfunctorily obliging carapacians install player-suitable bathrooms at every point that they possibly can, though you don’t want to consider if sentient chess pieces have need for ablutions. What you are pleased to consider is that, with some minor and largely aesthetic differences, trolls and humans tend to operate much the same way.

The bathroom you prefer to use the most is warm enough that you don’t dread disrobing. It’s strange then, that you give an impromptu shiver when you pull your hood over your head. A freeze starts to run along the surface of your skin, bringing the kind of vague ache that you associate with a cold. You do not, otherwise, feel sick, but any other explanation only serves to make the chill worse. You always start running the water before you enter the bathroom, however, so you hope that this cold won’t last.

You hope, because when you are fully undressed, it seems to sink right down into the marrow of your bones. There is still a weak pain on your surface, like pressing against any part of you would feel like a bruise and would come up mottled black and blue. You walk gingerly towards the bath, like your ankles might shatter.

There is a rush of endorphins and relieve when you settle into the hot water. It reaches just above your breasts, so you feel warm and immersed.

 

This lasts for a moment before you realise that the warmth just hits your surface, the chill still sitting in your core, like you are something half-thawed. Sinking into the water so that your shoulders are covered and your knees are raised doesn’t make a difference.

You twist, your skin rubbing and aching when it slides against the porcelain of the bath. You feel strangely sensitive and weak like you’ve stayed inside a cocoon long past your rightful pupation. Your flesh can break open so easily, so you could truly live, but it doesn’t.

You make an undignified whine. This seems to be the point where you would loudly protest and shout against them. But all you feel like doing is moaning and squirming against it.

_Rose. Rose. Rose. Rose._ There is a gelid writhing inside you, and you shift to make it go away. There is that same thick fullness that you remember in your mind, but wriggling around in your gut, wholly solid. It makes your stomach swell, your skin taut. When you place your hand against your gut, your skin still startles at the chill of you.

When you press down, it simply protests against you, unyielding, and you can’t try, somehow, to press it down and away. You would push it straight out of you, if you needed to. But it wants to burst out of you like a parasite, to split you open, and your skin smarts at the pulling, at the pressure. It feels like some writhing animal has become stuck inside you, anxious enough to press through the fleshy barrier of you. If you hadn’t burned to dead more than once, if you weren’t immortal, this might have been much worse.

The worst thing is the anticipation of bursting agony, and the fact that you’ve stopped knowing whether that trapped horror is yours or their’s. Afterwards, some part of you thinks, lucidly, afterwards, you’ll feel your skin knit back up, again, and you’ll put your palm against your smooth, unblemished gut. You try and think about that. If it wants to burst out, let it burst out.

Let it burst out, because you feel unclean, perhaps even more so than when you did vomiting up gallons of their saliva. By the time you notice that they’re visible against the underside of your flesh, your skin has turned an amorphous grey. You are the cold, now, and every inch of you gains sudden control over itself, down to the atom. You pull yourself out of the bath.

The pressure of them underneath your skin no longer hurts, even as they threaten to split you open. They simply wriggle along the underside of your flesh, where it ties you all together, and between your organs.

_Rose. Rose. Rose. Rose._ You move yourself like your own puppeteer. 

When you walk towards the door, your back is as straight as wood, and you don’t stare towards the mirror and you don’t pick up the pile of traffic-cone orange jammies on the floor. You know that your eyes have milked over as they look through you and the extra moment is worth more than the flimsy protection of fabric. Your body is small and odd as a figurehead, and you laugh, high and shrill, many-faceted, like you’re giggling through a sound prism.

**Author's Note:**

> For Ladystuck -
> 
> I'm looking for Rose Lalonde struck down with horror terrors and struggling with her grimdark tendencies. This is canon divergence, but only just. I would love just something gruesome and gross dealing with her relationship with the terrors inside of her and in the furthest ring. Pairings are fine, but overall i'm looking for more of a character study of what this could do to her. I'm good with any other ladies showing up romantically(particularly in pale relationships) but I would like male characters to stay in a friendship role. Body horror is encouraged, I really want some demon-like actions surrounding her(whether she's the victim or the perpetrator is up to you!)and just for it to be incredibly dark. I'm looking for a teen or higher rating.


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